


Well Sourced and Well Caffeinated

by hemmingsjonas



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellarke, Bellarke Fic Week, Chaptered, Coffee Shops, Cute, F/M, Indra (The 100) - Freeform, Journalism, Journalist Clarke, New York City, Raven and Murphy and Jasper and Monty and Octavia will also be in this somewhere, This is going to be so cute, Unemployed Bellamy, i'm so bad at tags, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hemmingsjonas/pseuds/hemmingsjonas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is a nineteen year old journalism major at NYU who recently landed a coveted internship at the New York Times. One morning as she exits her favorite coffee shop with her order in hand, Bellamy Blake bumps into her and knocks it to the ground. He is set on making it up to her, so he follows her through the city until she agrees to go to lunch with him that afternoon. </p><p>(this is super short because it's kind of just a preview, but if you like it please let me know because i'd like to continue it and add in more of your favorite ark people and all that jazz that comes with a chaptered fic!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke stumbled upon the coffee shop (called Java Bath, much to her disliking) the first week she started her new internship at the New York Times. She's not the Starbucks type, and no matter how convenient it would be to stop at one of the many corporate-run locations she passes every day on her way to work, she refuses to stand in a line behind girls in yoga pants that order drinks longer than her grocery lists. If she has to take the scenic route to get a cup of coffee at a place that doesn't also sell glitter in a cup, then that's what she'll do. A good journalist must be well-sourced and well-caffeinated. 

The place is small and dimly lit, with black and white portraits of Victorian Era men and women hanging on red brick walls. Dangling from the middle of the high ceiling is a rusty chandelier (that Clarke is certain has a rich history all to itself) and a metal counter extending from the kitchen. It isn't a lounge; there are no hipsters with laptops sipping espressos or indie couples exchanging records. People walk in, get their daily cup of joe, and go on their way to coexist in the City of Dreams. 

Clarke orders the usual, a medium with two sugar and a blueberry muffin. While she waits for her coffee, she lets her eyes wander to the tinted glass windows facing the street and searches through the passer-byers, almost as if one of them hold an answer she's been waiting to hear her whole life. The barista taps a bell when her order is up, which removes Clarke from her trance. She takes her muffin from the counter and drops a dollar and some change into the tip jar. She's just out the door when a man bumps into her, causing her to spill her coffee all over both of their shoes and knock the fresh bakery treat right out of her hungry hand. 

The man, who can't be older than twenty-three, looks absolutely horrified at what he has done. He covers his mouth with his large hand and cowers in his tracks. "Oh my god, I am so sorry!" 

Clarke grunts and steps into the gutter, kicking the air in an attempt to shake off as much liquid as possible. "If you were looking to piss me off today, this is a great start." 

He picks up the muffin and tries to hand it to her. 

"Are you serious?" She gives his gesture a disgusted one-over and tramps back into the coffee shop to get a napkin. 

He follows her inside and throws the muffin away, replacing it with a napkin, which he hands to her. She reluctantly takes it from him and dabs it on her hands, which are now sticky from spilt coffee that dried in the winter air. He leans against the counter and looks down on her, who seems to be almost unaware of his presence. "Let me buy you a new coffee." He wipes some crumbs from his hands on his jeans. "And a new muffin." 

She sighs. "No, that's not necessary." 

His face turns in agony, obviously very upset at the expense of the accident. "Please let me, I feel terrible about what happened." 

Clarke throws the napkin away and starts to head for the door. "Really, it's fine. I probably shouldn't be having carbs this early. Anyways, I'm going to be late." She heads for the door and he jogs past her, opening it for her. She uses the other double door. 

"I'm Bellamy Blake by the way." She's walking in the opposite direction of where he was headed, but he follows her anyways. 

She takes a sip of her coffee, which is now cold, and throws it away in a passing trashcan. "Why are we exchanging names?"

Bellamy thinks about her question, which he can't deny is really a good one. Why did he tell her his name? Perhaps because he feels bad, or because she wouldn't let him reimburse her, or because he's still too set on finding just one genuine person in this crazy new city. "I don't know, I just thought we could get to know each other." 

For the first time, she looks at him, but he quickly realizes that he would have rather she stayed with her eyes glued to the pavement than give him a look of such detest. 

Clarke stops to face him. "What is it that you want?" She is growing increasingly impatient and hopes that with a little sass he'll back off. 

"I-I don't want anything?" He studies her with a genuine look of confusion painted across his face. "Why won't you tell me your name? I told you mine."

She wipes a strand of hair from her forehead and replaces her hand to her hip. "Clarke. My name is Clarke Griffin." She turns to leave again. "Now, will you leave me alone?" 

"Wait!" He screams, startling both Clarke and himself. "If I can't buy you coffee, can I at least buy you lunch later?" 

She sighs and glances at her watch. "No, you don't have to do that either. Look, I'm really going to be late." She starts walking and is unsurprised to hear his footsteps behind her yet again. 

They walk a block like this, Clarke pretending to ignore his existence and Bellamy watching the back of her head with anticipation. She stops in her tracks, causing him to crash into her back with a thud. 

Clarke breathes in and closes her eyes, slowly exhaling her breath in an attempt to find a grain of sanity left inside of her. She doesn't find one.

Bellamy looks like he's in pain as he slaps his forehead. "I am so sorry, I swear that was an accident." 

"What do I have to do to get you to stop following me?"

He quickly composes himself and clears his throat, not trusting his voice at the moment. "Have lunch with me. Anywhere you'd like in the city, my treat." 

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Are you serious right now? Like, is this really that big of a deal to you?" 

He simply nods. 

"Alright, fine. Veganworks, on 175th Street. My lunch break is at twelve-thirty." 

Bellamy frantically pulls out his phone and types in the information. He looks up at her, expecting her to give him more. When she doesn't, he locks his phone. "You're not going to give me your number? Where do you work?" 

Clarke puts her hand in her coat pocket to retrieve her phone and make note in her planner app of the new event. "Don't push it." 

He smiles, a full smile, one that makes his eyes crinkle and his freckles radiate. "Alright, great. Just one thing though. Veganworks? Don't tell me you shouldn't eat carbs for lunch either." 

She glances at her watch again and gasps at the time. "I'll see you this afternoon, Mr. Blake. That is, if my boss doesn't kill me first." 

Still smiling, he calls after her as she fast walks down the street. "Call me Bellamy!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of Well Sourced and Well Caffeinated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i received a good amount of positive reviews from the short chapter 1 so yesterday so i wanted to add another :) i hope you like it! please let me know if you doooo

Clarke jogs past crowded revolving doors into the steel grey and black paned office building of the New York Times, practically bumping into three people in the process. How ironic, she thinks. 

She glances at her watch and makes a mental note to punch herself later. No self-respecting journalist would show up fifteen minutes late to work at the best newspaper in the country, especially if they are just a lowly intern whose sole purpose is to make copies and go on coffee runs. She races to the elevator, hoping to escape the death glare she was certain to receive from the picky receptionist named Indra. Clarke yells after someone to hold the elevator for her, but they ignore her (which is typical of everyone in the office), and the doors close in her face. She can hear the snickers inside the elevator as it climbs the building. 

Clarke thinks that waiting for an elevator under Indra's harsh gaze is more painful than it was to get her wisdom teeth removed. She tries to look busy by performing basic tasks; fixing her hair in the reflection of her phone, reapplying lipstick, straightening out her clothes, all in hopes that Indra will lose interest in her tardiness and let her slip by. Of course, it doesn't work. 

"Clarke?" Indra calls from her desk.

Clarke flinches and closes her eyes, slowly turning around to face her challenger. "Hello, Indra."

The older woman ignores her polite greeting and stands from her office chair, placing her hands on her hips. "Why are you late?"

Clark races to her counter and talks with her hands, begging for Indra to give her an inch to go with. "This guy bumped into me and made me spill my coffee and he followed me down the street and insisted I go to lunch with him today, but I was like, what? I can't go to lunch with you. I don't know you. But he was li-"

Indra waves her hands in protest, swatting away Clarkes words like they're a whiff of cheap perfume. "I'm offended that you thought I would care about your personal life."

Clark sighs. "Of course, I'm sorry." She breathes in and exhales the last bit of pride within her. 

"Now," the older woman shakes her head in disappointment. "The page six columnists have a meeting at noon. Prepare the conference room with water bottles and take their orders for lunch from Massimo's Bakery." She picks up a stack of folders from her desk and hands them to Clarke, who eyes them with bored expectancy. "You'll have to pick up the order on your lunch break. Finally, putting some use into that unnecessary hour you get for doing nothing." 

Clark nods, providing Indra with a fake understanding. There's only one thing Indra hates more than mayonnaise, and that's incompetence. (Clark learned the mayo lesson the hard way last week, when she forgot to order the woman's Cuban sandwich without it and came to the office the next day to find three times the work waiting for her.) 

She makes her way back to the elevator and is thrilled to find that no one else is waiting to board it. It's rare to find an empty elevator in this city, and Clarke treasures the long, lonely rides of self reflection. When you ride an elevator with a co-worker, even one that you're unfamiliar with, you have to express an air of professionalism and mind your manners for the duration of the ride. When you're alone, you can slip off your heels, pick your wedgie, floss, burp, check for boogers, and perhaps most importantly, have a moment to yourself in the city where someone always seems to be watching. In the safe confinement of the cavernous space, Clarke feels at peace amongst her stressful and humiliating days as an intern. Every time someone pisses her off, she stands in the elevator, closes her eyes, breathes in, and reminds herself that ten thousand other aspiring journalists would kill to be in her place. 

She gets off the elevator at her floor, the twenty-second, where the page six writers work and thus where their conference room is located. The room is the epitome of sophistication. A long, stainless steel table stretches across the marble floor, surrounded by black leather office chairs, and several canvases brushed with intricate black and gold patterns line the tall, mahogany walls. The far wall is a giant window that overlooks the city. Of course, the posh page six writers would have a meeting room at such a lavish expense. Those that make a living writing about the trials and tribulations of the elite are bound to demand equally elaborate workspaces. 

Clarke takes a moment to admire the view of New York from so high up. Seeing it like this puts everything into perspective for her. It also makes it clear that she made the right choice two years ago to move from Bumsfuck Nowhere, Ohio. The way the glass and metal of the surrounding skyscrapers glitter in the sunlight, the blur of cars whizzing by at a constant rate, the diverse people that scurry about the busy streets going here and there and everywhere their hungry hearts desire. It's beautiful, exciting, unique and intoxicating-everything she loves about the City that Never Sleeps. 

She sees a figure in the window's reflection and turns around to find her friend and colleague, Raven Reynolds, standing in the doorway. Raven is the writer of a weekly science and technology column called "Science With Raven". It's one of the newspapers highest rated columns, but the young professional doesn't let the recognition get to her head. In all actuality, Raven is the only journalist at the New York Times that has ever even acknowledged Clarke beyond the copy machine. 

Raven sits down at one of the office chairs, putting her feet on the table. "Clarke, you should really try and be more discreet when you're late. Indra's already told half of Sports and Politics." 

"Already?" Clarke pushes the olive skinned girls feet off of the table and sits next to her, her elbows on the table and her face buried in her hands. 

Raven sits up and pats her back reassuringly. "She said she doesn't think you're going to last much longer. I told her to shove it." 

Clarke exposes her face and smiles halfheartedly. "Thanks, Raven. I needed that today." 

Raven laughs and gives her back a final pat. "What's different from today than any other day?" 

Clarke's eyes grow wide and she slams her hands on the table. "What's different? Where do you want me to start? I was late to work, Indra grilled me, and a guy bumped into me this morning and made me spill my coffee and drop my muffin on the ground!" 

Raven makes a face of disillusionment. "That is pretty first world sucky. Lunch is on me today, I can tell you need it." 

Clarke sighs, remembering her plans with Bellamy. "That sounds amazing, but I can't. The guy that bumped into me insisted on taking me to lunch today. I would stand him up, but I'm afraid he'll just show up at the Java Bath tomorrow morning and give me the same puppy dog eyes."

Raven covers her mouth to hide a smile. "You're telling me that Clarke Griffin has a date?" 

"No, nonononono. It's not a date." She shrugs. "It's a chance for a crazy guy to reimburse me for ruining my day." 

"Is he cute?" 

Clarke is getting increasingly annoyed by her friends pining. "No, not really." 

Truth be told, he was very cute. Clarke would never admit it, though. It's one thing to accept the mans lunch offer, but it's another dangerous territory to look too far into it. She has a history of expecting too much from guys, and she's vowed to never make that mistake again. With guys, something as simple as acknowledging their attractiveness is enough to start a tornado of hurt. If it was up to Raven, Clarke would already be searching for a larger apartment and picking out future baby names. 

Raven's smile is replaced with a smug uncertainty. "I don't believe you. You're blushing."

Clarke pats her cheeks and feels their warmth. "No I'm not!" 

"Are to. What's his name?"

The blonde sighs, leaning back in her chair. "If you must know, his name is Bellamy Blake." 

"Bellamy, I like it. Very mysterious and sexy." She pulls out her phone and begins typing away at something. 

"You don't even know what he looks like!" 

"Yes I do, and I'm right. He's very sexy." Raven holds up her phone, which is on Bellamy's Facebook. 

Clarke tries to snatch the phone away from her, but the science journalist is much quicker. They run in a circle around the table until they're facing off on opposite ends. "Maybe I should add him! He'll be able to find you in my friends list." 

"Nooooooo. Nononono." Clarke is slowly walking towards her with her hand outstretched. "Raven. Don't." 

Raven accepts defeat and gives up, locking her phone. "You're no fun at all."

Clarke pushes in their chairs and releases a sigh of relief she didn't even know she was holding in. "Good. Now, look, this has been fun, but I've really got to get this room ready for the conference." 

Raven heads to the door, a smile covering her face. "You're right, you wouldn't want to have to work over your lunch break and miss your hot date. You better have some juicy details later! Bye-bye." 

\-----

Four hours later, Clarke arrives to Veganworks. She hesitantly walks inside the restaurant and scans the busy tables for a mop of curls. She feels a tap on her shoulder and turns around to see Bellamy standing behind her. 

He gives her a small wave and smiles. "Hi there. I just got a table. Follow me?"

Clarke puts on a polite smile and nods. They sit by a big bay window next to the street. Bellamy sits in silence as he looks over his menu. He makes several faces at some of the choices. Clarke already knows what she wants, but she doesn't want to rush him, so she pretends to still be looking at the menu while she studies his face. She likes the expressions that he makes when he reads something he doesn't like, and in her head, she reasons that he probably gets queasy about the same strange dishes she does. 

The dark haired man looks up at her and catches her staring at him. "Like what you see?" He goes back to reading his menu, like what he just said was the most casual thing on the planet. 

Clarke closes her menu and gives him a dirty glare, attempting to hide her mistake. "I was just-" Right about now, she wishes she could slap herself 400 times. "I was just looking at your face because I thought there was an eyelash on your cheek."

Bellamy playfully swats at his face and blows on his cheek. "Did I get it?" He shakes his head and laughs. 

The waitress comes at the perfect time, and it's almost as if she knew that Clarke needed help. Girl telepathy. 

They place their orders, and when the waitress walks away, an air of awkward silence overtakes the table. Bellamy taps his large fingers on the wooden table, and Clarke stares into her Sprite like she's going to jump into it at any second. 

Bellamy clears his throat, getting Clarkes attention. "So, Clarke. I just wanted to apologize again for this morning."

She smiles. "Hey, it's really no big deal. I'm sorry I was so rude this morning." 

"It's okay. We all have our off days." He smirks. 

"You're not supposed to admit it! Whatever, at least I taught you not to mess with a girl before she's had her morning coffee. " Clarke involuntarily slaps him on the shoulder. She pulls her hand away in embarrassment and puts her hands under the table on her lap. 

Bellamy watches as she hesitates. It's almost as if she just took back her little pat, and that's a shame because Bellamy liked the physical contact. It was their first touch. Well, besides bumping into each other this morning. Twice. "This doesn't have to be awkward, you know."

Clarke puts her elbows on the table and leans on them. "What's not awkward about this? We met this morning through a muffin accident and now we're having lunch."

He laughs. "I guess you're right. But, you know what they say, when in New York." 

She looks at him with innocent skepticism. "Actually, I'm pretty sure no one says that." 

Bellamy loves how snarky Clarke is. He's never met a girl that matches his level of snide before. 

He sits back in his chair. "So, what do you do?" 

Clarke is about to answer truthfully when her phone rings. When she checks who's calling, she's horrified to read that it's Indra. She gives him a sincere smile and answers the phone. "Hold on one second," she whispers. 

Bellamy hears a voice on the other end of the line going a mile a minute in a tone that would make him hang up any day. Clarke looks annoyed and almost upset at what the voice is saying. He hears her try to mutter an apology, but the caller hangs up. 

Clarke pushes out of her chair and puts her purse on her lap. "I am so sorry, but I have to go. To answer your previous question, I'm an intern at the New York Times and right now while the executive editor is on business in Tulsa, I have to answer to his receptionist that is royally out to get me." 

He tries his best to cover his disappointment with a small smile. "Of course, I understand. Since you're leaving, and we didn't get to finish, can I have your number now?" 

She smiles at his ingenuity. "That was good. You're smooth with words, we'll just have to work on your balance and coordination." She pulls a pen out of her purse and writes her number down on a napkin. "I'll talk to you later." 

Bellamy smiles and waves her off. "Yes you will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want more let me know! idk if i'm just being dumb or if this actually decent

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this is so short omg 
> 
> also sorry if you hated it 
> 
> if you didn't let me know if this is something you'd be interested in reading more of! thank you so much :)


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